


Runnin' On My Mind Boy

by tourdefierce



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Felching, Fluff and Angst, Knotting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tourdefierce/pseuds/tourdefierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek lets himself have this indulgence. That's how he thinks of it but maybe he's wrong. Not about it being dangerous and stupid, because it is definitely still that, but perhaps he's not the one making all the decisions around here. For once, maybe Stiles is giving him this and Derek isn't so much as taking, as he's just stop lying to himself. </p><p>[A story in which Derek feels all over the place, is still creepy, and Stiles acknowledges all of that, but doesn't understand why they can't be having sex and angsting about their lives at the same time.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runnin' On My Mind Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for marguerite-26's [Round 6 of Kinkspiration: Knotting](http://marguerite-26.livejournal.com/699425.html). Thank you to sabriel75 and kittie8571 for the quick and stunning beta-skills they both have. As always, samsamtastic for fixing my last-minute fuck-ups and reassuring me that this doesn't suck. (I'm sure that I wouldn't be able to produce any fic if it wasn't for this woman. She's amazing.) Any remaining mistakes are my own. This is my first foray into Derek's POV, so it's definitely an experiment and I still feel dramatically insecure about it. Title is from Frank Ocean's song _Forrest Gump_.
> 
> As for content notes: it should be acknowledged that Derek has violent and animalistic thoughts while with Stiles and it can/may be perceived as sexualized violence. The knotting is also oral and not anal.

He wishes he knew how to stop. But between everything else roaring around him, he lets himself have this—have Stiles. It's stupid. It's going to get one or both of them killed, maybe Scott too. But it's hard to stand up to someone like Stiles, who just doesn't give a damn what you think when he knows he's right. Getting Stiles to certainty is the hardest part. His insecurity is fueled by years of always being somewhere in the middle of the popularity contest and lusting for those at the top. Once the research is done, once Stiles is certain, there isn't any way to stop him. Human conviction is something Derek longs for when the sun is low on the horizon, daylight bleeding into the vibrant hues of an autumn sunset that promises bright, crisp stars that come before winter. He has instincts but so often he finds that they have led him astray in this new life—if his family were still alive, if that pack was still thriving here in the private woods of Beacon Hills, then instinct would be enough because the pack would show him the way.

It's not like that anymore.

The rules have changed and the human compass, to do what is _right_ above all else, often leads them to better results. Instincts feel useless when the world has changed. He knows he must adapt but it's so much better here, in the small safety of Stiles' room—where it seems like the only thing that matters is who Stiles is arguing with on the Internet, if they're out of lube (and who has to go to CVS to get some) and being quiet when the sheriff is home.

It's simpler here.

Maybe that's why it's so hard to give up.

Derek shakes his head, drumming his hands on the steering wheel as he waits for the sheriff to pull out of the driveway. He takes his time getting out of the house, making sure that the porch light is on and that the door is locked, dead-bolt tight, before he gets into his car. He's going to be early tonight, probably stopping off for an item that Stiles has banned from the house (anything with taste) before he heads into the station.

Even here, staring as Sheriff Stilinski leaves, making sure his boy is locked up safe, Derek doesn't feel guilt. He's starting to feel like he'll never feel guilty again, like he's filled up his quota for his life—the weight of his family sitting on his shoulders, the shadow of the Alpha taking up all his guilt and owning it until he's bursting. Not only is there not enough for Stiles but he doesn't want it anyway.

He doesn't feel guilty over Stiles—quiet maybe and fiercely protective—but not guilty. Maybe that makes him a terrible person.

Derek's not a person though.

He's a wolf in human's clothes, except he's not hiding. Not here, not with Stiles.

"You comin' in tonight, or do you feel like jerkin' off in your car again like someone who deserves to be slapped by a restraining order?"

Derek doesn't flinch but it's a near thing. He hadn't heard Stiles coming or smelt him and yet, here he is, hands braced on the top of the car as his torso curled through Derek's open window. He looks amazing, long and lean, if slightly awkward like a newborn fawn that has barely gotten a hold of his knobbly knees before he's hit with another growth spurt.

"I was waiting for the sheriff to leave," Derek says in lieu of surprise. Stiles rolls his eyes and wiggles his hip, possibly unconsciously but it's still distracting. His hips are slim and firm, they fit inside Derek's palms and make him want to bite marks all the way down to the bone.

"Dude, that's my dad. You call him “Sheriff” all the time like this is some sort of Western and let me tell you, my dad is definitely wearing the white hat and that leaves you in the black hat, wereboy. But shit, that makes me the saloon whore. Why do all my analogies end up in prostitution?"

Derek doesn't respond because Stiles isn't expecting an answer, he just opens the door up and lets it hit Stiles in the face. His over dramatic squawking is worth it, even if he clings to Derek's shoulder a little after and whines, bright and loud about his tender face. It's just gone twilight and they wouldn't want any of the neighbors to clue the sheriff in to who has been sneaking into his house almost every night. That would be just another problem that Derek doesn't really need to deal with right now.

Doesn't seem to stop him though.

It's never fucking easy now, but Derek leans down despite himself, to smell the clean sweat behind Stiles’ ear and barely restrains himself from palming Stiles' newly shorn head.

<3<3<3

He's not a master chef, but he makes a decent sandwich and he can smell the masked hunger on Stiles, who never remembers to eat, medication muting his hunger or whatever manic issues Stiles has with food that keeps him from eating like a normal teenage kid. It makes watching him eat kind of unpleasant, incredibly violent and open mouthed, crumbs flying everywhere. Derek suspects it has something to do with his mother but he doesn't press because his skeletons creak when he pries too much into Stiles' secrets, their rattle of hypocrisy too loud in this small house. Instead he lets Stiles get knee-deep in a story about Mr. Harris that Derek can hardly believe. This is more than one explosion and curse words that Derek didn't even know existed, let alone approved by Beacon Hills HS Curriculum board, and that's all before he's even started slicing the cucumbers.

He makes half a sandwich for himself, extra turkey with mayo, tomatoes, avocado and too much lettuce, before layering cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes and avocado (extra salt because the sheriff isn't looking) for Stiles. His complete loathing of lunch meat, no matter how thinly sliced, makes Derek oddly content and he nods when Stiles looks up and says, "Such a dick. I mean, right?"

It's not like he's hungry, but he eats his half-sandwich in three large bites. Stiles finishes his story with a few muttered exclamations about Scott and Allison but his heart's not into the bitching too much because when Derek slides the sandwich in front of him, he squeaks and does a little fist-pump before diving in.

Derek takes advantage of Stiles' stooped position to slide up behind him and wrap his hands around his waist and chest. Stiles eats on, humming through his sandwich and devouring it as inelegantly as humanly possible. Despite Stiles' completely human form, he eats like a whole pack of hungry wolves—savage and messy. Derek just closes his eyes and listens to the steady chomp of Stiles' teeth.

He loves the feeling of Stiles' bony shoulders against his chest, the rounded but sharp feeling of his shoulders as they curve and the prickly sensation of his hair against Derek's face as he rubs his face in the curve of Stiles' neck. He inhales, rubbing his nose back and forth there—right at the nape of Stiles' neck, where the hair is dew-soft and so short—smelling of citrus shampoo, sweat of the day and some mix of laundry detergent, body soap and cotton that sticks on Stiles' skin and makes him smell innocent and pliable.

A lie, clearly, but a welcome one.

"I think it's a werewolf thing," Stiles says, licking his fingers of tomato juice.

Derek hums questioningly, concentrating on rubbing the flat of his palms up and down Stiles' chest, trying not to get in the way of Stiles' flailing arms as he gestures.

"Creepy stalking, long, unblinking stares—you know, your patent seduction moves," he answers. "Because I swear to you, Scott didn't used to do that shit and now, Allison is going to get pregnant just from sitting in Brit-Lit by the way Scott is just carrying on. Is it a werewolf thing? Because it's not like I can tell from Jackson. He did Blue-Steel walking down the hallway even before his stint as Lizard Boy. And Isaac—"

Derek nips at the soft skin of Stiles' neck and says, "Are you implying that you feel impregnated when I look at you?"

"Okay, one? Don't say impregnated. It's creepy when you say it. Two? No. That is not what I'm saying, you pervert, I’m saying that—wait, you're thinking about sex now, aren't you?"

Derek's not. He's thinking about how nice it is to scent Stiles after a day spent apart. He can still smell himself—and them—underneath the history of Stiles' day. Derek can smell the stench of the locker room—the strongest, grassy lacrosse and Coach's onion breath—but it's fading every moment Derek spends pressed up against him. He loves the smell of Stiles but there is nothing better than erasing where he's been, trumping all of those distractions with a claim that lingers longer than any of the other scents on Stiles' skin because Derek keeps there, stays where he belongs in the depth of Stiles' skin, until it's impossible to tell Stiles; and Derek's scents apart from their combined scent.

It's another thing he allows himself—another small link that Derek ignores between his family and whatever is happening between him and Stiles. Derek isn't oblivious, just carefully blind for his own sanity. It's a choice, even if it's a bad one.

"You are totally thinking about sex. Why is it that whenever I mention Isaac, everyone starts thinking about sex? Am I missing something?"

"Let's go upstairs," Derek says into Stiles' skin and then herds him there, mouth open on his skin and hands guiding Stiles' hips as he bitches, mostly about Isaac's soft hair and big blue eyes, pausing to giggle frantically as they try and maneuver up the stairs.

"Homework?"

Stiles makes a sound like a wounded animal, all teenage frustration and Derek wants to be annoyed that Stiles can still get worked up over something as inconsequential as _homework_ but then Stiles is speaking, going on about how idiotic it is that The Great Gatsby isn't taught as a Queer Theory text and Derek sort of forgets about being annoyed and enjoys Stiles' face.

"I mean, I see it on the syllabus for college classes and they get to talk about immigrant culture and queer theory! How cool is that? And I'm stuck talking about _the eyes_ and how Greenberg thinks it's like when Coach watches him pee."

Derek sits down on Stiles' bed and raises an eyebrow. Stiles shuts the door, toeing off his shoes and says, "I know! Greenberg is an idiot!"

"I was going to speculate on why your coach is watching to a high-schooler pee."

Stiles collapses into his chair and then spins it around and gestures to his entire body.

"Okay Judgey-McJudgerson. You're the one bumping uglies with a high-schooler."

Derek doesn't respond and simply stares. Stiles breaks into a grin and spins around once and says, "Don't worry, man, I know I’m too awesome to resist! Greenberg is weird. I'm not sure Coach actually watches him piss but I wouldn't be surprised if they're doing it. I'm not judging. Well, I'm judging Greenberg's taste in men, sure, but I'm not going to judge. Nookie is nookie—also, it's not like Greenberg gets special treatment."

Stiles laughs, like there's some joke in there but Derek doesn't understand it. He doesn't even know how Greenberg even exists. He seems like he's on the fringe of Stiles' life, from class to lacrosse, but Derek has never met him. If it wasn't for Scott or Jackson mentioning Greenberg every once in a while, Derek would think he was Stiles' imaginary friend.

"But anyway, I've got this history project for Mr. Kyle and it has to be on immigrants," Stiles rambles on. He's opening notebooks, his computer whirling to life and Derek watches, pushing back onto the bed and lying down. As much as Stiles teases him about his "stalkish-mentally-unstable" behavior, Derek is more embarrassed by it than he lets on. But there is something fascinating about Stiles—something between watching prey and scouting an enemy that trends into something far more dangerous and comfortable.

"I've been thinking about combining the two? Mr. Kyle is usually up for like, interdepartmental circle jerks—or well, he's always telling us that when he's locking us in the library. He has crazy eyes that are even crazier than Uncle Undead."

Derek rolls onto his belly and toes out of his own shoes. "Don't call him that."

"He's your uncle, dude, and he was dead. And then he wasn't. This is my coping mechanism," Stiles says over his shoulder and Derek snorts.

He settles more firmly into the soft plushness of Stiles' bed. It smells like Stiles but Derek is there too—lingering but strong and the two blending together into something that smells so amazingly delicious that Derek instantly feels his dick twitch.

The bed dips.

"I'm going to get some shit done. You look like you're going to pass out."

Derek turns his head and rubs a stubbled cheek against Stiles' jeans. "Could do."

"Sweet," he says and suddenly there is a flurry of movement. The laptop is being hauled over, papers being pulled out of drawers and notebooks, pens are flying dangerously close to Derek's ears and finally Stiles settles down.

"Would you prefer to nap to a chemistry documentary about the periodic table or Frozen Planet?"

Derek hums. It doesn't really matter, not when Stiles' hand is settling into his hair and paging through books. He's going to fall asleep soon.

"Chemistry?" Derek mumbles but he can already hear an English accent start speaking about neutrons and protons.

"You're almost cute when you're sleepy, sourwolf," Stiles says but then he ruins it by tracing his fingers over the top of Derek's ears. It's the lightest, most damning touch that has Derek squirming and biting into Stiles' jean-clad thigh.

"Hey! No biting."

"Stop being a brat," Derek growls but his heart isn't in it. Stiles always does this—cuts the hardest parts of Derek out, like non-anesthetized amputation, and sticks his fingers in all the gaps—plugs Derek full of the smell of home and a human weakness that snarls into strength before their eyes.

Stiles hums, hands back to Derek's hair and it's quiet for a while, only the English man's voice filling up the room. But soon Stiles is shuffling closer and nudging Derek with his hip against Derek's face.

"What."

Stiles laughs. "Take your shirt off. You'll fall asleep and sweat all over me and that is the least attractive thing in the world. It's like watching a kitten in a dryer."

What an insane and ridiculous image. But it doesn't stop Derek from struggling out of his t-shirt and settling back in, one of Stiles' legs bent and tucked up underneath Derek's chest so that Derek's face can fit into the dark crease of Stiles' hip.

"You just want to objectify me," Derek mumbles, sleep already barreling into him as the smell of home seems to overwhelm him. There is always a flash of panic that Derek fights and he ignores the need to flee, get away from this pit of unknown that Stiles stands neck-deep in, cheerfully tugging at Derek until he's suffocating under their combined weight. He should run away, the memory of his family being ripped from him a burned reminder of what it is like to gamble with love. It swells when Stiles' hand moves from his hair to his back, tracing his tattoo.

Change.

The constant reminder that everything can be conquered, even the deepest and darkest of fears or the ugliest truths—or the sickest nothingness that might lie beneath them all. Or perhaps just inside of Derek.

He pushes it all away, swallows the urge to bite Stiles to the bone—flesh, sticky fat and slick blood to curdle in his mouth to reveal the sweetest taste beneath—and he settles into sleep, the same smell that panics him, leading him into dreamless sleep.

<3<3<3

Derek wakes up, warm and half-hard, in Stiles' bed. The documentary is still blathering on but Stiles doesn't seem to be doing anything but rubbing his fingers all over Derek's face and twisting his hair into a bedhead that would rival post-sex hair any day.

"Are you awake?"

Derek inhales, toes curling, as he stretches, keeping his face firmly in the pillow of Stiles' thigh and says, "No."

"Asshole," Stiles squawks but he doesn't jostle his thigh so Derek doesn't complain. Silence settles in again and Derek listens to the documentary talk about nuclear fission to the background of Stiles' thoughts. God, even they are incredibly loud and Derek wants to either crack his head open and see them all linear and clear or smack him against the headboard to stop the constant sound of over-thinking.

"So I've been thinking," Stiles says and Derek waits because there is always something more. Case and point, Stiles waves his hands around, makes three crude gestures and smiles. "About your dick."

Derek fights to keep a straight face and turns his face to see Stiles'.

"Am I supposed to act surprised?"

Stiles smacks his lips together. "No, obviously, because I do think about dicks and you know, specifically your dick and whoa, only your dick, growly wolf, but what I mean to say, was that I have been thinking about your dick and its _special parts_."

It’s already dark outside, coolness streaming through the barely open window. If Derek lets Stiles continue to ramble, all 17-year-old boy with an obsession with nice breasts and getting his dick sucked, nothing will get accomplished by the time Derek has to sneak out... other than Derek feeling extremely old when Stiles uses ridiculously _Scott_ phrases and words like _freakin’_.

Derek grabs his wrist and squeezes, smelling Stiles' flare of arousal and a drop of fear.

"The point, Stiles. Special parts?" Derek says scathingly.

"Right," Stiles says, grinning widely now. "Your—your swelly thing. At the base of your dick. Whatever that's—"

He makes a gesture with his hands that starts out mimicking expansion but goes a bit too far and breaks apart, only to end in what can only be described as _jazz hands_.

"My knot," he answers, even though his throat feels tight and his vision blurs with the force of his arousal. 

In front of him, Stiles' whole body seems to surge up with lust and the scent is heavy, even as the view gets better, Stiles' face flushing up his cheeks and there, the tell-tale sign of Stiles' already half-way through whatever sex they will be having in a few minutes, except all up in his head—the wide sweep of Stiles' tongue on his bottom lip and then it's trapped between his teeth, his jaw moving back and forth to pop his lip on the inside and outside of his bottom row of teeth.

"Yeah, your knot."

Stiles struggles over the word but Derek can't smell fear, only excitement and belly-deep arousal that makes Stiles tremble and Derek wants immediately to tear him apart. It's always like this between them, struggling through the lust that drives the wolf to find the quiet hum of arousal that beats human, whole and happy. But when Stiles opens his mouth and starts speaking like he's part of the pack—an idea that has been a hard sell for Stiles—it makes Derek crazy. He feels wild: skin on fire with sensitivity; ears thrumming from the sound of Stiles' erratic heartbeat and the heady rush of hearing his blood pumping so close to him; his cock is hard, leaking in his briefs and his balls ache; his fingernails throb, wanting to feel the growth of his claws, and his teeth shift, driving home the almost overwhelming need to take Stiles.

Not only to fuck him open with his cock and yes, _his knot_ , until he begs for more—until he cries for Derek—but to bite him hard enough to break his neck, hear the crack and shatter of his bones before they reknit into something wholly Derek's, bound by nature and never going to leave without a fight. The wolf howls with the knowledge that Stiles deserves to be owned—has earned Derek's desire and even the soft, human part of him wants to hold and keep Stiles in the quiet, in the dark—but Derek knows that no one could ever own Stiles because Stiles is anchored by his humanity. Derek can see it in the tension between Stiles and the sheriff, but also in the physical contact and the trust that threads them together. While it causes the wolf to pace angrily, Derek shakes with the scent of _pack_ when he meets the sheriff around town and that knowledge steels him, comforts him and for once in his life, grounds him. It has always been anger and now that's changing, shifting with Stiles' presence, not because Stiles asked or demanded but because this is how it is now—how Derek wants it. 

"—I was paying attention in Chemistry, don't give me that look, okay? But I was also thinking about blowjobs. I can multitask! You've seen me do it! I have opposable thumbs! But that's totally not the point, I don't need a lecture about paying attention in school because I am way smarter than half the kids there and my predicted SAT is like, Ivy League, right? Because I'm _awesome_. So, what do you think?"  
Right. Because Derek is supposed to be listening to that.

Derek pulls back, puts inches between him and Stiles and closes his eyes.

"Is this about Scott?"

Stiles doesn't say anything for a few moments. When Derek opens his eyes, Stiles is blinking, mouth gaping open and then closing it quickly, only to open it back up again, like a goldfish. It makes Derek want to smack him but he doesn't. He lies still and feels frustration bleed into their space again. He hates this. He hates that he can't take one goddamn evening and enjoy this—even if it's stupid and reckless; he doesn't care—because there's always _something_.

"Dude, I'm talking about your dick," Stiles says, unhelpfully.

Derek snorts. "So it is about Scott."

"What! No! Are you fucking crazy?" Stiles looks scandalized and Derek hates him, for a few seconds, because he's ruining this and he's not even trying to. They both are. Two objects constantly in motion that have found each other in too tight of a space. They collide, rattling about but can't seem to make it work when they're at rest.

"Just tell Scott to mind his own business," is what Derek growls, turning over so that his back faces Stiles and he can study the wall. It’s childish and petty. 

He feels caught-out.

The stench of his own embarrassment is some sick feedback loop that makes Derek queasy and unbelievably angry. He should leave, go run the woods for the rest of the night and get his head on straight. If he was thinking remotely right, he wouldn't have come here tonight to indulge in Stiles.

"I'm done." It's rude and short, something about his flat tone of voice that Stiles loathes and expresses so frequently. He's sitting up when Stiles pulls on his shoulder and looks him in the eye, teeth bared and yes, there is anger there too.

"No. No. Fuck no. You don't get to just do that," Stiles says and it's without a doubt. "Back up, seriously, because you lost me on your hairpin turn at the intersection of Emotionally Stunted and Real Asshole."

Derek growls. He doesn't want to talk about this.

"I'm going," he says and wrenches out of Stiles' grip.

His vision is all red, blurring around the sides and he feels the nauseous swell of his own fear in his stomach. It's rancid in the back of his mouth as he takes three steps to the door but then Stiles doesn't move.

"I fucking swear, Derek, if you walk now—" Stiles huffs and Derek feels smug. What is Stiles going to do to him? What is this stupid, worthless boy going to do to stop him? He waits, hand on the door, listens to Stiles take a huge breath of air and then listen as he suddenly deflates.

"Just, don't walk out on me. I'm asking you right now, this is me asking you to stay. I have no idea what Scott has to do with knotting or _whatever the hell_ set you off but you can't just walk out on me."

This is why Stiles is dangerous—the way he pulls Derek in so many directions. His voice trembles and Derek feels the resonance of abandonment, of not just _fear_ but expectation and resignation. He feels the anger, which used to be such a reliable tether, unravel at Stiles voice, open with frustration but willing to struggle for clarity. Derek doesn't know what to do with that. Without the familiar comfort of his anger, he strays—swaying a little by the door and utterly conflicted. There is something about Stiles that isn't right. It doesn't make sense other than he is there, cutting Derek at the knees and sticking around to see if he can help him rebuild. Stiles isn't Kate and Derek has never had to remind himself of that but Stiles is still human. The way that Stiles unravels him, unhinges anger and leaves Derek struggling between too human and too wolf whenever he's around—unsettled and out of breath.

"I always want you," is what Derek hears himself saying. His forehead finds the cool wood of the door and he digs the tips of his claws into his thighs, like this was something that could be fixed with a jump-start for his healing. "I always want you. That's what the knotting is about."

It's not a declaration and it doesn't sound like one. For that, Derek is grateful. He hears the click and slickness of Stiles' throat as he swallows.

"I didn't tell Scott—"

Derek scoffs. "He doesn't need to be told, Stiles. You reek of me."

"So what? You want me. I want you. We're a little unconventional but it's working. Right? I mean, beyond the fantastic sex—not like I have anything to compare it to but hey—I mean, we're doing all the other stuff okay, too?"

Derek hates the waver of self-consciousness. He always wants Stiles to be sure. Always.

"Scott can smell my knot on you," Derek settles on finally. "He might be dim but his instincts are getting better. He knows what it means."

"What does it mean?" There is nothing in Stiles' voice but curiosity.

"That I want you—to be pack. And that's not possible. Not—I always want you and that means I treat you like pack and I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Derek's bleeding, sluggishly, from the claw holes in his thighs. He hates this. Talking about this is even more dangerous than being involved in it but he can't make himself leave.

"Because you'll leave," Derek whispers. "I told Scott that Allison would leave and she will. So will you. You're human and you'll die, or worse, betray us _because_ you're human. Even if that's one of the reasons that you're so appealing."

There is a sputter of indignation but Stiles is squawking a little, " _Appealing_? Seriously? What is wrong with you!"

"Stiles."

"No, Derek. Listen, I'm not a hunter."

"You don't have to be a hunter to break a pack," he says but they both hear the replacement word. So weak and pathetic even to his own ears, Derek can hear the faulty hesitation. To break an _Alpha_. To break Derek.

"Is that how you see the world, Derek? Everyone is either a werewolf in your pack or they're Death Eaters? Life isn't like that. It's not that black and white," Stiles says. He's angry enough for both of them and for once, it feels good not to be the angry one. Derek feels the roll of his shoulder and he pulls out his claws. He'll heal quickly enough but the holes in his jeans will still be there.

When he turns around, Stiles is still sitting on the bed but he's shirtless and smiling. Derek doesn't even know what to do with that.

Stiles shakes his head and throws up his hands; it's an aborted and twitchy movement. His face is practically splitting open with a grin. He looks ridiculous but he's breathless and Derek's mind is spinning. He's off kilter, the ground underneath him trembling with the sheer force of Stiles' bravery. Brash and open, Derek watches as he leans back on the bed and wiggles his hips. It's not sexual. It _is_ because bodies are but that's not the motivation though—it feels different, like this is Stiles' way of telling all the world to go fuck itself and take Derek's instincts too.

"Hell, maybe everything is that simple," Stiles says, rubbing a hand over the fuzz of his head and down to his neck. It's a path that Derek follows, usually leaving marks along the way. But Stiles doesn't stop looking at Derek. He can smell nervousness but not uncertainty? Just anticipation, like when you're about to jump off a cliff, the raging water below you and there are rocks down there, and you know there is a statistical chance that you might not surface but you're not scared. It won't happen to you. It's youthful faith and Stiles is staring at him and daring Derek to _do something about it._.

"Maybe it's all going to go to hell, Derek. I can't predict the future and I can't go back and unfuck the past. This is all we got. I honestly couldn't tell you how we got from talking about your dick, to fighting about how Scott is even remotely involved in what is going on between us—which, is good, okay? We're good. I feel good when I'm with you and I want you, and maybe I want you in my pack—maybe that's what me wanting your knot means. Screw Scott or whatever emotionally challenging conversations that you two participate in, because obviously they are beyond your maturity if you guys are screwing it up this bad."

Stiles cocks his head, licking his lips after his little speech and not looking away from Derek. He tilts his chin up, a challenge but Derek can smell his fear. It's amazing to him that Stiles can acknowledge that fear, look it in the eye and own it. Whatever happened to the boy Gerard broke, he is no longer evidenced here in Stiles—this Stiles wears his fear on his sleeve, like a badge of honor, and it doesn't stop him. He doesn't care. Where Derek's instincts take him in the other direction, Stiles asks him why he's leaving, when there is so much more to be terrified by.

"Derek," he says. "Fuck if I know how we ended up here but if you want me, maybe you should come and get me.”

Unsurprisingly, it sort of devolves from there and suddenly, Derek can't stop himself. Being on the other side of the room from Stiles is physically painful. Next thing he knows, he's shirtless, lying on the bed, concentrating on the pink bud of Stiles' nipple with a snarl and Stiles is jerking his head by his hair.

"What?" Derek says, suddenly feeling a hot rush of embarrassment as he pulls off. Stiles is glaring down at him and Derek wants to go back to hiding his face against the smooth skin of Stiles' chest, rubbing his stubbled cheeks until they burn the skin around Stiles' pretty nipples—until he's raw and tender.

Stiles flicks his ear.

"Would you just use your damn words?"

Derek growls, his own frustration tearing through him but he doesn't back away. He just snarls into the soft skin of Stiles' belly, teeth bared and catching on the skin. He can smell Stiles' fear now, thick and heady, but no more than normal. It's there because Stiles' wants it to be—because this, whatever happens between them, is dangerous—because it's growing but neither of them understand how to stop it. Nor do they care.

He breathes harsh puffs of air into Stiles' belly-button before he drags his teeth up, laving at a taut nipple until Stiles' whines and Derek stays there, licking and sucking until it hurts. Stiles curses, fingers tugging on Derek's hair but he doesn't move. He bites, gnawing on the reddening nub until Stiles cries out, knee jerking to hit Derek in the stomach.

Derek growls but he releases the nub, having gotten exactly what he wanted, and buries his face in the lean space of Stiles' armpit. He smells like grass, sweet sweat, laundry soap and the lingering scents of the places he's been today before he was here with Derek.

"Derek, are you doing that thing again? Because I'm not totally opposed to that thing but last time you stuck your nose in my armpit like a total creep, I had like five orgasms and I mean, yeah, that is awesome but we were talking and—about my mouth and your were-dick and—"

Derek tunes him out, listening only to the cadence of his voice as he inhales hard. Soon, the rest of the world will fade away from Stiles' scent and it will only be Stiles, earthy but sweetly young, and Derek's own that will cling to Stiles' frame, begging to sink into his skin and take up residence, demand to have what's rightfully his—he found it first and he wants to keep it.

Eventually, Stiles' voice peters off but he's still stroking his jagged, quick-bitten fingernails through Derek's hair and down his neck, scratching and marking him—mostly to be annoying—Derek knows, but also because it's comforting to both of them. Derek licks around the patch of hair, rubbing his cheek along the coarseness and placing open, sloppy kisses wherever he can. The snag of Stiles' nails on his shoulder brings him out of Stiles' armpit, straightening so that he can trail his mouth up Stiles' bony shoulder and along the pale strip of skin below and above his collarbone that leads to his long, bared throat.

"If you want my knot," Derek whispers, teeth pressing up against Stiles' jugular. "You'll have to work for it."

Stiles full-body shudders, his spine lengthening as he stretches his head back for Derek to lick and suck, the flat of his teeth dragging against Stiles' skin until Stiles moans, legs widening to accommodate Derek's more imposing frame.

"Yeah?" Stiles puffs out. "I can do that."

"Can you?"

Stiles' chest expands, taking a breath before speaking and Derek moves quickly, sliding two fingers between Stiles’ lips, pressing down on his tongue and stoppering his mouth.

"It's instinctual," he says into Stiles' ear. He's so close that he can only smell Stiles and can no longer see him. "When I'm fucking inside of you and I smell you coming on my cock, I want to keep you there—open and slutty around me. I want to lock you there so that I can breed you or tear out your throat until your submission wills you into taking my seed by force."

See, Stiles should run from him. Derek knows that the scratch of his voice and the close proximity of his fangs to Stiles' neck should send him running—that all of this should be too much for a boy all of seventeen but Stiles doesn't move. He moans around Derek's fingers, hips bucking up against Derek but not for freedom. Not at all. When Derek inhales, he smells the thrill of attraction, the way Stiles' hole clenches and unclenches, as if he's remembering Derek's knot buried there only a dozen hours ago, how Stiles had cried, forcing himself back on Derek's knot until they both were a mess of come and desperation, fighting to be closer without killing each other. More than anything, Derek knows that the rush of power Stiles feels from being able to do this to Derek is enough—the knowledge of how to make Derek lose control is the prize for Stiles. At least, that's what Derek thinks it is. He can't be sure, not with Stiles, but whatever it is, he's staying.

He squirms in Derek's hold, mouth tight on his fingers, but it's for Derek's benefit.

"You'll have to force me to knot in your mouth," Derek says and stops. It's too hard to say. He's not embarrassed but he's not Stiles, who wears his arousal on his face, unashamed by what he wants as he moans and writhes for Derek. It's a naked vulnerability that Stiles has never stopped being, while Derek hasn't experienced that sort of desire in years. He's not denying it now but the words stick in his mouth and he growls, trying to get them out but they don't come.

He taps his fingers on Stiles' teeth and releases him, pushing up from him and watching as he flails, eyes flying open and angry of having been deprived touch. Derek strips out of the rest of his clothes, mind racing to try and calm his erratic heartbeat. So often his body tries to manipulate itself into Stiles', heartbeat threatening to beat fitfully out of his chest as irregular as Stiles' own Adderall dependent one.

He pushes Stiles out of the way, sets to stacking the pillows, and when he's done, he reclines against them and spreads his legs wide. Stiles has stopped his own undress, oddly quiet, as he stares. Derek lifts his eyebrows but Stiles doesn't scoot closer. He just stares.

"Stiles," he says, low and steady, listening—he hears the skip of Stiles' heart beat and he closes his own eyes then, stroking his cock as he hears the symphony of irregular sounds that indicate that Stiles is frightened but wanting anyway. Derek settles in, forcing himself to relax into the pillows as he strips his cock deliberately. He pauses to squeeze at the hard base, where the swell of his dick hardens beneath the ring of his fingers.

He sighs, moaning into the next stroke of hot, easy pleasure, feeding off Stiles' arousal fueled fear.

When he opens his eyes, Stiles has removed his clothes as quietly as he could, which means that Derek heard every single swoosh of fabric against his skin—but he's lying on his belly, underwear gone, mouth hovering over the tip of Derek's cock like there is no place in the world he'd rather be.

His breath is too hot but it still sends a shiver down Derek's spine. Stiles' oral fixation is something to be marveled at, always putting something in those kiss-swollen lips and always a welcome distraction. Here, it's a filthy promise—waiting with parted lips that he licks, always the tip of his tongue chasing away dryness.

And Derek's going to crack them wide open.

He tosses the lube down and says, "don't get distracted, Stiles," then he's palming the prickly-soft fuzz of Stiles' head and lowering his puckered lips to the tip of his cock because he can and it's exactly what Stiles' wants. His head pushes back on Derek's palm, even as his mouth puckers, until Derek exerts a bit more force for him to smile at.

He moans too, sound vibrating up Derek's dick and spreading hot pleasure up his spine and chases it with his tongue, openly mouthing at the head and sucking at the foreskin. It burns, sharp and too hard before he pulls it back with his lips and licks swirls across the exposed head, fingers working.

"Fuck," Derek moans because no matter how inexperienced Stiles is, how impatient he is to have come in his mouth, he's always hot and sloppy. Spit mixed with precome is already sliding down Derek's length—Stiles' mouth is loosening and clenching up, trying to catch all the come on his tongue to savor but constantly forgetting how to swallow.

Derek presses down until Stiles opens his eyes, rolling them, before he clumsily takes more of Derek into his mouth. There's too much teeth but Derek hardly notices because his eyes are on Stiles' fingers that are trying to get slicked with lube.

He doesn't even manage to get the cap off, too distracted by Derek pushing into his mouth and chasing the heavy weight on his tongue. Derek growls and bends down, shoving his dick deeper into the swell of Stiles' mouth and listening as he chokes a little on the length, chin and nose pressing solidly against his knot.

"You're going to choke on it," Derek promises, spilling lube onto Stiles' fingers and pushing them. Stiles struggles, trying to reposition himself but Derek keeps steady pressure on the back of Stiles' head.

He fights it, thrashing a bit, but Derek has him solidly, guiding his fingers past the bulk of his balls and to the space behind them. Stiles doesn't wait for a written invitation but Derek can smell his surprise—whatever he thought Derek was hinting at seems to be vanquished and confirmed at the same time. Stiles moans, gagging a little when Derek jerks his hips on the fumbling press of two fingers.

"Stiles," he growls out. It hurts, two fingers feel like they're stretching him too far but it's just the angle and Stiles' inelegant fingers and it feels good, the pain, real and persistent. "Stiles, more."

He doesn't listen.

He bobs his head, licking the underneath of Derek's dick with complicated and seemingly random patterns but knowing Stiles, they're inscriptions that Derek will be quizzed on later. His fingers are ruthless, a gap between them that feels like Stiles has gone straight for stretching. The fingers twist but there is still only two, scissoring him open with a lazy, inability to multi-task that Derek knows to be complete falsehood but Stiles' doesn't seem to be teasing. Merely enjoying himself.

Derek watches, hips canting to force himself too deep into Stiles' mouth every time he backs off. His nostrils keep flaring, trying to get more air in when he can but Derek loves the stop-stutter of breath on his cock too much to give Stiles' a break.

"You'll have to come," Derek gasps out, riding a wave of pleasure as Stiles' blunt fingers press solidly onto his prostate. "I'm going to need to smell you, Stiles but you'll have to keep pressing as hard as you can—there, fuck, there—as you come all over yourself for me."

Stiles is nodding but he's barely moving his head now, just sucking with the hallow of his cheeks and messily slobbering around Derek's dick, lips tightening and widening around the edge of Derek's knot. He can't pop the whole thing into Stiles' mouth—well, he could but then he'd be too far down Stiles' throat and although he does want to choke Stiles with the length of his cock and lock up his mouth with come, he wants Stiles to be conscious.

"Stiles," he moans, bucking his hips and watching Stiles try and keep up but Derek can see the way his bare ass is moving over Stiles' shoulder, how he's humping the mattress and that makes Derek grin, wolf-fangs lengthening to press against his lips. He's likely to cut himself but he wants to taste blood now, like Stiles will soon.

"Give me more." It's a demand that curls out of his chest but doesn't have him pressing up into Stiles' mouth. Instead, he's grinding back on two fingers and moaning at the steady struggle of a third. He's tight, clenching and fighting Stiles' third finger, even as he grinds back. He almost slips out of Stiles' mouth but the wet heat chases him, Stiles' lips desperately tightening around the shaft as he practically bounces against the mattress to grind his dick and feed himself Derek's at the same time.

Stiles' chokes, it's a little hiccup, but it's enough to have Derek pressing harder down on Stiles' head and watch him come. He's writhing on the bed, grinding his dick into the comforter and spilling come on the sheets like he's in the midst of the wettest dream of his life. "There you go," Derek says, his voice rough and gritty but Stiles keeps coming and the smell fills the air. Derek clamps down on the fingers in his ass and curses.

Pleasure is exploding everywhere and as he rides out the wet, greedy slide of Stiles' slutty mouth, Derek can feel his knot pressing harder against the slippery seal of Stiles' lips. Derek feels like it's not going to happen, that he'll come on Stiles' tongue but his knot won't. Stiles seems to be able to feel his fingers again because they're back pressing inside of Derek. They'd gone slack with the force of his orgasm but the air is full of Stiles' wet, come scent and the thick press of his fingers causes Derek to cry out. Anyone else would back off, knowing the shout of sensation is too much, but Stiles just sucks harder and rides Derek's prostate so hard that he feels like Stiles is punching it with his fist.

Finally, Derek feels it and chokes out, "it's coming," stomach clenching with the pain of the thickening of his dick.

Stiles' eyes fly open. They're liquid amber and it reminds Derek of the smell of leaves as they turn. Not death and decay but the bliss before that—of autumn's crisp preparation for winter. The knot comes on quickly. Derek's palm holding the bulk of Stiles' mouth down until his lips form a tight ring enough for his knot to come on full force.

Derek can't look away. His body is rolling with pleasure and he has to keep his hands on Stiles' head, pushing him down because his body is wild—out of his control, he’s thrashing back onto Stiles' three, relentless fingers and jerks into the confines of his mouth.

"Your teeth," Derek hisses, fingers dropping over Stiles' face until he can trace the outline of Stiles' lips. "Your teeth will stop the knot from—fuck, from getting too big."

Derek can't even feel the press of teeth on his dick. He's already tensing, feeling the first wave of orgasm rising to the surface. He's screaming a little through his own teeth, "fuck, Stiles, fuck—I'm gonna knot your face—fuck."

Coming with the knot is a lot like being with Stiles: painfully conflicting but worth it. The base of his dick is swelling and it's about as throbbing and tender as it sounds, just as it starts to be too much he starts to come and it's worth it. It's the push past the burn in his muscles, panting with oxygen deprivation and struggling through that to take a breath deep enough to open up to a howl—it's that and Stiles, piled on top of it. It's intense but Derek fights to keep his eyes open to watch Stiles.

He's still clearly struggling through his own orgasm, mouth too wet and face red. His hips are still jerking against the mattress but he moans around the pressure at his lips, pressing forward to try and seal his slick lips over Derek's knot. The sound, choked off and vibrating up Derek's spin makes Derek want to thrust up, pushing his thumb into the underside of Stiles' jaw and force his knot behind the flat of his teeth. It's overwhelming—the need to be deeper, to fill Stiles up until he bursts and gurgles around him. Derek growls instead. He rakes his fingernails across the curve of Stiles' head and runs his fingers all over his face.

Soon, the stretch will be too much and Stiles' face will be wet with tears and Derek wouldn't miss it for the world.

Here, swelled to fit the seams of Stiles' mouth, it's hard not to want anything but to lay Stiles out and bite him—bite him until he starts to heal, until the blood replenishes itself and wounds knit over Derek's teeth marks. It's impossible not to want anything but to steal Stiles away, knot his ass and his mouth until he no longer smells like anything but Derek, until he never wants to leave Derek's side and is always open for the full pressure of Derek's knot, swelling to remind him of where he belongs.

Stiles' eyes alternate from wide to scrunched with wetness—not long now, as Derek streaks inside of him, that he'll be too full and he'll cry on Derek's cock. Derek is too big but he's stopped swelling with the aid of Stiles' teeth. He's big enough to stretch Stiles' mouth until it's gaping, stuffed clear full, but Derek can see the way the corners of his mouth are splitting underneath the pressure. He's bleeding there, cracked and split raw.

Derek tracks his fingers there too.

Stiles is struggling to breath a little, taking too much of Derek's cock, trying to readjust and get a breath in. The top of Derek's dick presses hard against the flat of Stiles' front teeth and Derek hisses, "keep still," but it only seems to make Stiles realize that his fingers have stopped their movement. He spreads them, wicked pleasure dancing in his wet eyes as Derek hollers, smacking Stiles' shoulder and arching back into the painful stretch. Stiles is crying in earnest now, whimpering around the fullness of Derek's dick and so overwhelmed that it almost makes Derek want to stop.

He stays, still coming in long jerks along Stiles' tongue, because Stiles has three fingers twisting and stretching inside of his ass, nails riding his prostate and the unapologetic look in his eyes is visible behind the sheen of tears. Stiles' grip on his hip is solid, arm wrapped around Derek's thigh—every time Derek's pulse of come is stronger, shooting down Stiles' throat, the hand on his hip sneaks down to pull at the wiry hair on Derek's thighs. It makes Derek want to bare his belly and throat. It makes him want to splay his legs and let Stiles rut into him, messy and frantic, until he comes all over both of them.

 

"Jesus, Stiles," Derek groans out, head falling back with his realization.

But Stiles' doesn't relent, just pressing fingers deeper and slides his thumb up to massage between his balls. He rolls the skin there, fingernails catching, and presses too hard and it makes Derek's knee jerk. His stomach clenches and pulls him up to curl around Stiles' head, until the prickly-soft fuzz of Stiles' hair is gouging his belly-button and Derek's stretched arm can scrape nails up Stiles' ass.

The movement seats him on Stiles' fingers and Derek roars a little, the urge to choke Stiles—to ram his cock deeper until the palette of his mouth splinters and the ball of his knot sits happily on the flat of Stiles tongue—rams into him and then scuttles away as quickly as it came.

A few more minutes and Derek can feel his knot go down a little. He's not coming as hard anymore but he's still spurting sluggish pulses of come and Derek leans down, smacks at Stiles' ass and says, "it's going down now, Stiles.”

For a terrifying moment, Derek thinks Stiles has a case of lockjaw, with the way his tongue works but his mouth goes nowhere. But then Stiles is snuffling, nose twitching and the tears are still coming. He's licking and sucking, too much sensation for Derek's cock but he lays back anyway, lets Stiles do whatever he needs to do. He keeps his eyes open though. He refuses to give in so quickly to the dead pleasure in his brain, making him need sleep to recover from claiming Stiles so thoroughly.

For a while, Stiles just lets Derek's cock hang in his mouth. His fingers have gone still but they're spread wider than Derek's completely comfortable with and it's barely on his radar as he's too busy watching Stiles cry on his cock, struggling to stay there like he _needs_ Derek's come.

"Stiles," he rasps out. "Stiles, come up here."

Stiles shakes his head, Derek's cock falling out to smear across his lips. Derek hisses when Stiles mouth moves back, lips rubbing and bumping up against the sensitive tip of his dick. He's still coming but it's lazy. Nevertheless, it's a pretty picture: tear tracks running down his cheeks, mouth puffy and skin broken at the corners with smeared blood and the redness of Stiles' face from spending too much time with Derek's knot blocking off his airways.

"You're fucking gorgeous."

And he is. Derek can see the way he's humping the bed now and he can smell the pungent smell of Stiles' arousal, no longer passive or happy to be submissive to the swelling force of Derek's orgasm but now chasing its own.

"Stiles, come up here," Derek says and he pulls at him until Stiles complies.

His fingers jerk out of Derek but it's no matter, not the way he nuzzles at Derek's face and whimpers into his mouth as they kiss. It's sloppy and uncoordinated but Stiles' mouth smells like Derek's come and the thick claim of Derek's knot.

"Stop humping my leg," Derek says, tonguing the open splits of Stiles' lip. Stiles whimpers.

"Fuck, Derek, I'm a minute from coming again," he says. "A minute, like, tops."

Derek pulls a knee up, abruptly stopping Stiles' hips mid-thrust and Stiles' shoulder rams into him, almost giving him a bloody nose.

"Seriously, Derek? You're going to complain about a little sensitivity here?"

Derek smirks, bites Stiles cheek and says, "You want to get off on my leg? Go ahead. Or—"

"There's _options_? What is this? A multiple choice test?"

Derek pinches his side. " _Or_ you could put your dick in me, you big cry baby."

Stiles does that quick blinking in rapid succession, followed by a rough shake of his head, like a dog shaking water from his ears.

"No way."

There's no response to the barely contained excitement on Stiles' face. Derek doesn't know how he ever forgets that Stiles is so young, with so many experiences ahead of him, even as the list of things he's experienced is twice as long as many his age—each milestone more dangerous than the last. Derek forgets that Stiles is sometimes just a boy trying to get laid, possibly in the middle of falling in love. So human and fragile but natural.

"I'm going to come embarrassingly fast," Stiles say, disbelief still on his face and tone politely cautionary.

"Yep," Derek says, smiling. "Like the virgin you are."

Stiles grins crazily back, now holding his cock and kind of waving it around with an excitement that can only be had by someone seconds away from washing away the last vestiges of their innocence.

"Dude, shut up. I'm about to totally dick you."

Stiles is grinning, shifting back on his knees a little and Derek just lies there, letting his legs fall open a bit more and reaches down to gently play with his balls. His aren't as sensitive as Stiles', who has a shameless habit of dragging Derek's hand down there whenever he can—happily forsaking a reach around stroke in exchange for a lengthy ball grab when Derek takes him from behind. But it feels good, rolling them gently in his hand and watching come pool on his stomach.

"Really? Anytime soon? Cause I thought we were going to discuss it some more. Maybe you want to make a diagram you're always yammering about at pack meetings," Derek deadpans but Stiles is already moving, limbs flailing like the complete noodle he is.

There's too much lube but Derek doesn't mind. Stiles doesn't really go anywhere near his prostate. He's a complete and total mess, fingers clumsy with excitement. He slips into Derek almost by accident and gasps, mouth opening and eyes slamming closed with a high-pitched sound. Derek's still riding out a slow pleasure, cock slightly swelled at the base and smearing small amounts of come on his belly. It pulls there and shakes with every uneven, frantic thrust of Stiles' hips. He's impatient, too needy to put the effort into long, slow pulls but alternates between jackknifing his cock into Derek and grinding there, so that his balls press against Derek's ass.

It's a relief that Stiles is still him, eager and clumsy but perfect, even in this. Derek is hazy with slow pleasure but this is a strange position for him. Bottoming has never come up between them like this, always under the assumption that Stiles would be the one being bent over and ravaged. And he is most of the time but Derek doesn't deny the urge to let Stiles take control every once in a while. He doesn't know what makes him let go now. He doesn't know what allows him to let the vulnerable rush of being this exposed collide with the heady power of letting Stiles fall apart like this, hips crazy and rhythm gone, as he sporadically thrusts into Derek, dick dragging inside of him as he chasing his orgasm.

"Oh my god," Stiles says.

Derek grins, adjusting his hips a little to angle Stiles away from his prostate. It's not likely he's going to get anywhere near it but Derek's riding out the tail-end of his orgasm and anything that rides to close to his prostate will have him crawling out of his skin. He's never insanely sensitive until the end but now that Stiles' is here, rabbiting hips and mouth hanging open, little "oh god"s falling out of his mouth as he inelegantly fucks Derek.

Stiles' hands slip, barely grabbing onto the backside of Derek's thighs, nails dragging down the sensitive hairs there. It sends fissures of pleasure through Derek, keeps his dick idly pulsing on his stomach as the knot shrinks.

He's stupidly beautiful like this, drunk with pleasure and ready to come at any second. Distantly, Derek thinks that Stiles might be good at this, that they might fit like this too. Stiles' dick is long, curved slightly to the left and he's raw like this, just like when he's splayed out on Derek's cock or trying to coax his dick into Derek's mouth when Derek's sleeping. (Stiles calls them _sneaky blowies_ , which is disturbing but Derek will admit to enjoying waking up with Stiles' scent engulfing him, choking him with the length of his cock and his needy whines for the pleasure of Derek's mouth.)

Stiles comes with a chorus of strangled, high-pitched "oh god"s, leaning down with one hand to awkwardly cup at his balls as he shoots inside of Derek—well mostly. He slips out at the end and makes a mess of Derek's ass cheeks, which makes Derek wince and growl a little but Stiles doesn't mind. He continues to fondle his balls for a few moments before collapsing on Derek with little regard to Derek's sensitive dick or his internal organs wish to not interact with Stiles' elbows.

"Oh my god," he repeats into Derek's collarbone. "Seriously fuck. Is it always like that? Because fuck, Derek, oh my god, that was better than lasagna. I didn't know—"

Derek laughs because he can and his mind is gone, benching the look on Stiles' face when he came and the way it curled tight in Derek's chest. It felt like being gutted, left to die there but knowing he'll heal—knowing he'll get back up and live again but wishing desperately that he could go back to that moment when he was torn apart.

He palms Stiles' damn head, leans down to nip at the top of Stiles' ear and says, "you're tighter" and Stiles groans. His wet dick is smearing come all along Derek's thighs and it's quickly getting uncomfortable. He lets Stiles catch his breath, arms wrapped around Derek in the nakedest hug ever, but as soon as Stiles starts to nuzzle down like he's getting sleepy, Derek pokes his side.

"Clean me up," Derek says. The expected groan of annoyance doesn't come. There's a slight pause, where Stiles shifts a little before becoming incredibly still.

"Just like you do?" He finally mumbles, meek and curious.

"If you want."

Stiles keeps his head in Derek's neck, suddenly shy and slight. "You like it?"

"When I clean you or do I like it done to me?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Yes."

Stiles hums and Derek traces up and down his back for a while before Stiles leans up. Stiles' mouth is still a mess, crusted with spit and come, blood smeared around the edges of his lips but Derek kisses him anyway. It's soft because Stiles cups his face, gentle and reverent in a way that Derek just wants to absorb—worried that when it's all over, he'll forget what these moments feel like.

"Be right back," Stiles says. He disappears to the bathroom and comes back with a washcloth to clean them both up. Derek doesn't move much, just watches—curious now and nebulous feeling—as Stiles wipes himself clean with quick, sharp movements. When he presses the cloth to Derek's stomach, it's cool but his face is serious and determined.

The cloth makes its way to the creases of Derek's thighs, rubbing there before he dips back and carefully cups and cleans there too. It's just courtesy. Derek gave up trying to corral Stiles into a shower post-orgasm after Stiles threw a phenomenal tantrum and ended up wearing the same plaid shirt for four days in some sort of half-assed protest. Instead, there's always this and of course, Derek's own definition of clean up.

"You don't have to," he says, when Stiles sets the cloth aside. But Stiles just shakes his head and smiles, small and honest.

"I want to."

Exhaustion, bone deep and satisfied, settles in his body at the first touch of Stiles' tongue to the dampness of Derek's balls. It's not sexual when Derek does this, not after they've had sex and Stiles is still buzzing and his arousal gets beaten out by the lazy afterglow of sleep and the way he leeches off Derek's warmth. And it's not sexual now, as Stiles licks long flat strips up to his swollen entrance. Derek sighs, melting into the smooth repetitive motion of Stiles' tongue laving at his skin. It's easy and familiar, the ritual of cleaning them up like this, even if Derek is usually on the other side. He can smell Stiles' come on his mouth and Derek's own scent, licked behind his teeth and kept soft there. Derek lets him lick him clean, dipping inside to taste there, before Stiles retreats to Derek's balls.

That's when he reaches down and tugs Stiles up.

"What?" He's licking at his sore mouth, eyes wide and lost, head still bent and ready to go back. Eager.

"I don't like that as much as you," Derek says, soft. "You can stay down there as long as you want but lay off my balls."

Stiles nods, already ducking back down. He rearranges Derek's legs until one is thrown over his shoulder so that he has more access. He stays there, mouthing and licking until Derek smells like Stiles' mouth, until Derek's hands feel numb from rubbing at Stiles' shorn head and Derek wonders if he's going to fall asleep there, mouth open to Derek's soft, taken body. Finally Stiles hums, thumbing Derek's cheeks and the insides of his thighs for going on five minutes before he kisses his way back out and settles to rub his face against Derek's soft cock.

"I like it," Stiles says. "More than I thought I would from—you know, this side."

"Yeah."

Stiles closes his eyes, lays his head on Derek's hip and doesn't move. Derek stares because he can. He catalogs the slight up-turn of Stiles' nose, the soft flutter of his breath, the slow and constant thrum of Stiles' irregular heartbeat.

"Still don't see how any of that's Scott's business," Stiles slurs out, sleepy and petulant. Derek shakes his head. It wasn't the time to talk about it then and it's still not time to talk about it now.

"It's not," Derek says. "Come up here."

It's a lie but it doesn't stop Stiles from crawling up Derek. They kiss—well, Derek kisses Stiles' slack mouth, licking into the corners and laving at the taste of them that lingers deep and sweet.

It is Scott's business because Derek's poaching his pack and he has full intentions to steal Stiles away, regardless of the consequences and Scott's made it clear that joining packs isn't on the table. It's just another thing to negotiate around, but Beacon Hills hasn't been uncomplicated since Derek's childhood. Staying here was a decision made out of desperation. Derek was grasping in the dark, looking for his parents and for the lingering scent of his pack. What he found was something that smelled different and looked different but tasted the same. 

The sound of the heart here, the way it makes his sound, is the same.

"Shut up and sleep, Stiles," he says, rearranging Stiles without more than a mumble of protest from the boy. Derek waits until Stiles is asleep, on his back with half his body lying directly on top of Derek and the other curled up underneath the pillow and covers. He finds the lip balm Stiles is fond of, honey raspberry flavored, and dips his finger in it. Carefully he spreads it over the bow of Stiles' top lip and carefully circles his entire mouth, attentive to the cuts at the corners and the deep cracks in the bottom lip. He traces them until they're soft and wet, Stiles' snuffling in his sleep and unconsciously pushing back on Derek's chest.

He thinks about leaving then, easier now than in the morning when Stiles is late or grumpy with morning light but he can't get his limbs to move. Instead, he watches Stiles sleep. His mind is surprisingly clear and it's so rare that Derek just lies there, applying lip balm to Stiles lips until he's heavy with sleep too.

Derek wiggles a little so that he can free his arm up to the space of Stiles' neck and slide it across his chest. He snuffles and smacks his wet lips but burrows back into Derek's chest, legs splaying even more awkwardly into Derek's space. Soon, the sheriff will pull in, tired but happy to have a job to be exhausted about. Derek will have to listen to him puttering around in the kitchen below, most likely eating something with a salt content Stiles would throw a tantrum about, before settling in to watch some worthless late-night television. Derek will fall back to sleep to the sound of Friends or Big Bang Theory and Stiles' noisy, attention demanding heart managing to drown it all out and lull the anxiety of the sheriff being in the house.

The moon shines bright and shadowed across the bed, high-lighting the steady clench and release, clench and release of Stiles' hand around Derek's wrist that's pressed low into Stiles' belly. The tickle of Stiles' happy trail against the tender, skin of his inner wrist is distracting but he doesn't move.

Instead, Derek tucks into the curve of Stiles' shoulder and lets his breathing sync up with the slow rise and fall of Stiles' chest. There will be time to dwell on the burden of his selfish decisions tomorrow—guilt is never far. For now, there is only his scent on the pale expanse of Stiles' skin and the anchor of his heart.


End file.
